The King's Commander (Kingdoms of Meria Book 1)

by Cecelia Mecca

  This time, there is no pain.

  Propped up with my hands on his chest, I revel in the feeling of finally being joined with him again. Revel in . . .

  “Oh!”

  Vanni grabs my hips, pulling down. We move in rhythm, the feeling entirely different than it was the first time. It’s just as good, though, maybe even better. When his lips part, his eyes rolling back in pleasure, I feel more powerful than I’ve ever been.

  This is why the Garra have been hunted. Mocked. Ridiculed. Even killed.

  Every moan that escapes from Vanni encourages me until our movements verge on frantic. His hips thrust up from the bed as I circle him, so close . . .

  “Vanni.” My voice is breathless.

  “Aye, love. Come for me.”

  I let go then, screaming both from the incredible release and the gift my soon-to-be husband has given me. I am in charge. His guttural cry follows mine as his fingers dig into the flesh of my hips. I welcome the sensation, collapsing atop him.

  Vanni flips me then, though we are still joined. His smile is a teasing one.

  “I am an overly sexual creature, and thoughts of you occupy me too often. Perhaps you can help with that affliction.”

  “I’ve heard those words before,” I say through laughter. He kisses my neck, then trails kisses down to my breast, taking it into his mouth. Circling and teasing the nipple, I can feel him harden already even though I know such a thing is scarcely possible.

  “We just—” My words are cut off by a kiss unlike any we’ve shared before. Not slow, not careful, but hard and eager. Our tongues tangle as he begins to move. Before long, his full length fills me as we repeat the dance that I’ve only just learned.

  This time is shorter but no less intense as my hands attempt to grasp his wide shoulders. He wraps my legs around him, and we come together as one.

  For tonight.

  For forever.

  Epilogue

  Aedre

  “My hand is slipping,” I call up to him, but Vanni pulls me atop Dex as effortlessly as he did back in Murwood. This time we ride north, to Highburn Castle. To meet with the man who is attempting to take Meria from his uncle.

  “I would never drop you,” he says, pulling me onto his lap. “Did I not tell you that?”

  I settle in front of him, remembering his words clearly.

  “Aye, you did, husband.”

  He leans forward to kiss me just below my ear, something that surprises me given his men are with us, but none of them seem to notice or care.

  “Are outward shows of affection not frowned upon here?”

  I may never have been to the capital before but am well aware of their customs. There is a strict code of conduct here, and kissing your wife publicly is frowned upon.

  “You are a Voyager, are you not?”

  “Aye,” I agree as we begin to move. “But this is certainly not Murwood End.”

  Our entire village could likely fit inside the courtyard of Castle d’Almerita.

  “A pity. There’s much I came to love there, though I can’t remember being so enamored with it on my previous visit.”

  Smiling, I turn to look at him.

  “Do you ever wonder if our paths crossed then? When you were there as a child? I often spent time escaping the forge to watch ships come into port.”

  One of the men calls out to Vanni. He answers and then turns his attention back to me. Of the twenty or so people assembled for the journey, I am the only woman.

  “I have thought of that. And also of our first meeting . . . you said you did not like me.”

  I watch the courtyard, teeming with activity, as we leave and pass through the inner ward.

  “I did not like what you represented,” I correct him. “Do you really believe I will be welcomed here in Meria?”

  Our hastily arranged wedding, with the king in attendance no less, was nonetheless much more opulent than I’d ever expected my wedding to be. Surrounded by glittering gold and warm colors. But Father was there, and Vanni, of course, and that’s what mattered.

  We ride past the gatehouse now, its walls so thick I cannot imagine them ever being penetrated, and into the open fields. The land is flat here, another thing that will take some getting used to. I was raised with a view of the Northern Loigh Mountains surrounding us, but here, you could see for miles, the city center off to the right but still visible.

  We veer in the opposite direction.

  “Lady Edrys lived in a different time,” he says gently. “There may still be some resistance from the church, but we’ll navigate that together.”

  Which reminds me.

  “I never did see Father Beald again after Lord Bailor’s. I wonder what happened to him?”

  Vanni makes a sound behind me. “Do not wonder about him overly much. The man hardly deserves it.”

  I wiggle my bottom, attempting to get more comfortable, when Vanni groans.

  “Do not do that, wife.”

  His words are harsh, but his tone is not. And precisely because he told me not to, I do it again. “You mean this?”

  Growling, he leans into me and whispers into my ear. “You’re unaccustomed to riding, and no doubt your backside will be sore by the time we stop. Keep that up, Aedre, and I cannot guarantee I will take that fact into consideration.”

  Because I’ve been bold these last two nights, and he’s rewarded me well for it, I lean back and say, “Then ’tis good it will not be my backside you find pleasure in this night.”

  His arms tense around my waist.

  “Aedre,” he warns.

  “And thankfully there are many ways a man and woman can find pleasure. I believe you are familiar with some of them, but there are others, forbidden by the church, of course, that I would like to explore.” I may not have tried them, but I know of them.

  His face is suddenly buried in my neck.

  “You are a temptress.”

  I turn toward him, finding his lips easily. As we canter along, Vanni’s mouth covers mine. His tongue slashing, tasting. Until the men begin to holler.

  Laughing, I straighten myself once again.

  “You worried once about having a wife, a distraction,” I muse, not wanting to ruin the moment but also curious about Vanni’s change in thinking.

  “I’ve solved that problem easily enough. You will come with me everywhere I go. Though your knife skills might need some honing.”

  I like that idea.

  “Even into battle?”

  Though I’d said it in jest, Vanni suddenly becomes quiet. When I spin around in the saddle, he’s regarding me with a curious look.

  “I fear you’ve come to the capital at a more eventful time than I’d like. There may be battles ahead, Aedre. And no, you’ll not be coming to them. But I vow to you . . .”

  He holds his chin high, reminding me of the proud man I first approached on the docks of Murwood End, an outsider who nonetheless stood his ground.

  “Whatever happens in the days ahead, I will protect you and your father as fiercely as I will the king. You accused me once of loving him more than anyone, but I give you this truth. You taught me to love.”

  That he mentions Father too . . .

  “I love you, Vanni.”

  “And I love you, Aedre.” He kisses me on the nose, and I settle in for a long day’s journey.

  All will be well, indeed.

  Not ready to leave Vanni and Aedre just yet? Download a bonus chapter to stay with them just a bit longer and receive updates on the next book in the series.

  Can’t wait for the next Kingdoms of Meria installment? Download the first book in Cecelia’s completed Order of the Broken Blade series, The Blacksmith, available now.

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  The Blacksmith Sneak Peek

  Northumbria, England, 1214

  “This is treason.”

  Lance said it first and wasn’t surprised when no one responded. They all knew it, and speaking the word aloud again would serve no purpose.

  “Think carefully before you respond.” Conrad moved to the flap of the tent, peered outside, and apparently satisfied, sat back down.

  So this was why his friend had set up so far away from the rest of the tents. Conrad had known that his proposal would turn the four of them into traitors.

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  The earl would only have proposed such a drastic action after careful consideration, and he trusted his friend implicitly.

  All three of the men watched him, none more carefully than Conrad. But he had said his piece. He wouldn’t change his mind.

  “We will need support.” Terric had more reason to march against the king than any of them, but he was also the most cautious. He would have the most questions, but Lance was confident he would do it. They all would.

  “If the Northern lords don’t join together now,” Conrad said, “then they are lost.”

  “We’ll be lost too, lest you forget.” Guy crossed his arms and sat back in the chair that had been carted here on a wagon filled with the luxuries afforded them by Conrad’s station.

  Their friend cared little for such comforts, which was why it had surprised Lance when he’d insisted on attending the Tournament of the North in such a stately fashion, something his father would have done were he still alive. Conrad was reminding those who might join their cause that the Earl of Licheford was one of the most powerful Northern border lords.

  “I am no great lord,” Guy continued, “but I’m as affected by John’s policies as any.”

  “And taxes,” Conrad added. “His policies and taxes. Both will be our demise if we allow it.”

  Guy shrugged as if their friend had asked if he wished for a meal rather than suggested they join forces against their king. “I’d not turn away an adventure such as this.”

  “An adventure?” Terric shook his head. “You’re mad to call it one.” Then, turning back to Conrad, “You have a plan?”

  “The beginnings of one, aye. The most crucial part being your support.”

  By “your” he meant the three of them. With just one more assent, the course of each of their lives would change forever.

  Terric stood and extended his arm, fist clenched. His friend had extended his arm for such a vow only once before.

  Conrad clasped his wrist.

  Guy was next.

  Lance, last.

  “Today we pledge more than a vow of silence. We form an order this day.” Conrad looked directly at Terric. “The Order of the Broken Blade.”

  A perfect name. A symbol of the abuse of power that can accompany a man who believes his rule divine. Nothing but silence followed his proclamation.

  It was more than a name. It was a promise. Like the first one they made to one another many, many years ago. No one else would understand the significance, yet each of them did—and each took it to heart.

  “For England,” Terric said. Ironic for him to be the one to say so, as he was the only one among them not English.

  Lance hated to dissent but thought it important to mention a fact Conrad seemed to have overlooked.

  “An order? Of knights?”

  Unclasping hands, they waited for him to finish.

  “Surely you see the problem? Aye, you’re an earl, and Terric’s a baron’s son.” He nodded to Guy. “Even the mercenary is a knight.”

  “And my title is well earned,” Guy winked, “unlike these two.”

  Lance couldn’t help but smile at that. Guy had made the remark many times over the years. That it failed to rile Conrad now was a mark of the seriousness of their discussion.

  “Take out your sword,” Conrad ordered, his gaze on Lance.

  There were few men Lance took orders from these days, but this man was one of them. So he complied.

  He’d intended to remind Conrad he was but a blacksmith, but there was no use telling his friends what they already knew. And though Lance had no use for a fancy title or any of its trappings, the solemnity of the moment was not lost on him. No, it was clear to them all. One look at Terric’s and Guy’s expressions told him as much.

  Ignoring the others, he dropped to one knee, laying his sword across it as Conrad pulled out his own sword. Tapping him on each shoulder, he uttered the words Lance had never thought to hear in his lifetime. When he was finished, Conrad bade him rise.

  “Stand up as a knight, in the name of God.”

  He did, unsure what to say.

  “Do you have any further opposition to our order?” Conrad asked.

  “No.”

  “Good. We’ve much to discuss.”

  Of that, Lance had no doubt. Rebelling against a king required planning, after all.

  “Including your new title.” Guy bowed to him. “Sir Lance.”

  “I quite like it.” Terric bowed as well.

  “A Scots clan chief bowing to an English blacksmith.” Guy looked at Conrad, raising his eyebrows dramatically. “I’ll admit ’tis a sight I’ll not soon forget.”

  “When you finish jesting . . .”

  “Does he ever?” Lance asked Conrad sincerely.

  “We’ve the small matter of King John to discuss.”

  Small matter indeed. If even a hint of what they’d just done were whispered to the wrong person, their heads would be forfeit for it.

  Knight or blacksmith, earl or mercenary . . . none of their titles, or lack thereof, would matter if they were exposed as traitors to the crown.

  The king’s men marched through the courtyard as if it were their own. Idalia’s father stood next to her on the doorstep of the great keep’s entrance. She peeked up at him, wondering when the hair of his beard had become more gray than black.

  “Welcome,” he boomed as the first of the newcomers reached them. A captain, perhaps? Idalia tried not to smile at the looks they were receiving. Not outright hostility, but certainly the people of Stanton could give the representatives of the king a warmer welcome.

  She was secretly glad they did not.

  “My lord.” The tall, thin captain bowed to her father, the Earl of Stanton. “We travel to Norham Castle and request shelter for the evening.”

  Interesting. Why were the king’s men on their way to Norham and so far north?

  Idalia could hear her father’s silent answer to her silent question. Do not concern yourself with the affairs of men. She also knew what he would say next.

  “My daughter will see to your comfort.” He looked at her as if expecting a retort. It was market day, her favorite, and Father knew it well.

  But he knew his daughter too.

  “Of course.” She smiled as the captain and his two companions joined her. They were dressed identically, in armor topped with bright red tunics bearing the crest of their king. They’d require assistance in removing that armor. Marina, her mother’s maid, would normally assist her in making the arrangements, but Marina was nowhere to be seen.

  More likely than not, she was sitting at Idalia’s mother’s bedside, something the maid often chided her for doing.

  I have been her maid for as many years as you are alive, she would say. Which was not fully correct—Idalia had only been alive for two and twenty years, and Marina had been her mother’s most trusted servant for four years longer. Sometimes it felt as if Idalia had two mothers.

  “Follow me,” she instructed the men, catching her father’s small smile. Seeing one of his rare smiles almost made missing market day worthwhile.

  Taking them past the great stairs on either side of the entranceway to the keep, Idalia nearly missed the flash of royal blue.

  Her younger sister. She wished to call out to Tilly, but it was unlikely she’d get a response. Tilly disliked helping
with the duties about Stanton. Sure enough, the flash of blue was there and then gone.

  By the time she showed the men to their chambers and sent up a squire to assist them with their armor, Dawson, the seneschal, had already spoken to Cook about dinner and arranged baths for the three men.

  His help had eased the burden of the unexpected guests, but Idalia had one more thing to do before she could check on her mother. The captain had made a special request of her—or rather, of the smith. She left the great keep and walked through the courtyard down to the castle forge. Stepping around puddles that had formed on the gravel path after that morning’s rain, she arrived, the door, as always, already open.

  “Daryon,” she said, stepping into the darkened room. “Is there enough light to repair a shoe?”

  The apprentice looked up, hammer in hand. His brother had already begun tidying up. It was a habit Roland had instilled in his apprentices. Idalia pushed the thought away. When she thought of how the blacksmith had suffered before he’d succumbed to an illness all had known would claim him someday, a familiar pang in her chest reminded her of the master smith’s absence.

  “Aye, my lady.” He looked at her hand.

  “I don’t have it with me but will send it straightaway. ’Tis for the king’s captain,” she added.

  “Shall I fetch it from the stables?” the lad’s twin brother, Miles, asked. At only ten and two, the boys were carrying a responsibility that should never have been asked of them. Two apprentices smithing for a castle the size of Stanton . . . she shook her head. The situation could have been avoided had her father taken Roland’s illness more seriously. They should have started looking for a new master smith long ago.

  “Aye, thank you. The new master should be arriving any day now.” A replacement smith had finally been found at this year’s Tournament of the North, a yearly event where English knights and Scottish warriors prepared for the very real battles they would later fight.